Doesn't Feel Like Dancing
by Centris124
Summary: "If Alistair had forgotten that the lady Warden had been a noblewoman not very long ago, he remembers it now. She dances like he fights, with every move drilled into muscle memory until it's as much a part of her as her flesh and bone." Dancing, fighting and a badly timed lick (not a lamppost. Not a "lamppost" either).


**A/N:** This one's been kicking around for awhile, undergoing massive revisions. Figured it was time to let it free. Yes, the title is from Doctor Who. No, I won't subject you to any more Doctor Who references in this fic. It rambles some, I'm sorry.

This path is never easy, but as far as days go, Alistair thinks this has been a pretty good one. Darkspawn were thin on the ground, and with the manageable numbers he'd taken the opportunity to throw in a couple of impressive killing moves. When his bravery and skill got an unsatisfactory response he'd ranged ahead for a bit with the warhound, then decided to devote the rest of the day's march to pestering the womenfolk.

Morrigan is nearly too spikey to bear, but he can't help picking at her anyway. She's so haughty and strange and he's clearly making her angry, so that's a reward enough in itself. Leiliana just laughs at his sallies. But the new Warden recruit is by far the most entertaining target.

She laughs at him too, but that's different. She's lithe and pretty and when she laughs with her head thrown back she's even prettier, so somewhere along the line that becomes his goal. Sometimes, like today, she can be coaxed into verbally sparring with him. Sometimes she'll smack him lightly on the arm when he's being particularly witty, and _sometimes_ she'll tussle with him playfully, her and the dog, and that's the best of all possible outcomes. She told him once that he's like a big brother to her, and while he feels he should be pleased by this admission, he's not, exactly.

Today they've tried to tussle each other clear off the road several times, and though the others in the party grumble a little and roll their eyes because this activity is noisy and a little undignified, the weather is lovely, the path is clear, and everyone seems to be in a jolly mood. After foiling Alistair's last attempt to shoulder her into a ditch, the new Warden hooks elbows with Leliana and the two walk ahead together, arms slipping around each others' waists and heads bowed together. Girlish giggles and whispers float back to him on the gentle breeze.

When they stop to make camp, the two women trot off happily together without him. Alistair is left with Zevran to start setting up the tents, but despite the Warden's abandonment and Zevran's lack of it, he still feels that today was work well done. He pulls off most of his armor and starts building up the campfire. Even Morrigan is mellow enough to casually toss a spark of magic into the woodpile as she stalks past, sparing him the effort of using the flint.

Throughout supper and beyond it, Leliana and Elissa remain side by mischievous side, murmuring and occasionally squealing with excitement over what Alistair imagines must be the deepest of feminine mysteries. He strains his ears to catch some of the conversation and overhears bits about "blue silk shoes" and Orlesian ballads and he is trying very hard to follow the thread regarding gallant knights when his concentration is interrupted by someone nearby clearing their throat. His gaze falls on Zevran, that up-start elven assassin, who is watching him with open amusement. Alistair glares back, and pretends to clean his armor.

Now Leliana is standing, and tugging on the young Warden's hands to pull her up alongside. Elissa laughs, a cascade of merriment, as Leliana grasps one hand in hers and places the other at her waist. The bard begins humming a tune, and the two swing into the steps of a traditional Orelesian dance.

The two move together with utter grace and precision, and if Alistair had forgotten that the lady Warden had been a noblewoman not very long ago, he remembers it now. She dances like he fights, with every move drilled into muscle memory until it's as much a part of her as her flesh and bone. His eyes linger on the set of her lifted jaw, the line of her arm, the long curves that sweep from her shoulder to her hips, a peep of smooth skin where her linen shirt has come untucked from her breeches. How could he have been up to his armpits in darkspawn guts with her for the past few weeks and not noticed how _delicate_ she was? How does she even hold that shield up, let alone crack a hurlock skull with it? He is suddenly struck by the notion that she should never be out of his sight again, not _ever. _

In the glow of the firelight, the two women whirl closer and closer. With a sweet smile his Warden reaches a hand out and wriggles her fingers at him, inviting. He shakes his head violently, color rushing into his cheeks. He doesn't dance. Templars don't dance. Royal bastards don't dance. She flashes him an exaggeratedly hurt glance over Leliana's shoulder as the bard sweeps her past him and away across the campsite. Their next stop is Zevran.

It's bad enough watching Leliana hold on to his Warden in a not-that-sisterly manner, but adding Zevran to the mix is right out. The assassin stands gracefully, hands outstretched, and Leliana passes Elissa off to him with a grin. Zevran folds her in his arms and they take a few steps, before Alistair drops his still-unpolished armor with a muffled crash and heads purposefully in their direction.

The three look up, startled, at the noise, and he feels like an absolute lout but THIS CAN NOT HAPPEN. Breathless he reaches them and, with an admirable attempt at gallantry, stammers, "M…may I cut in?"

Zevran appears to have no real objections if there are two attractive ladies to choose from and he can't have both, so the elf flashes a wicked smirk, takes hold of Leliana with a flourish and off they go. Alistair breathes a sigh of relief, which is short lived as he realizes that the Warden is now within the circle of his arms, waiting, and he has no idea what to do next. They're just…standing there.

Honesty seems to be the only feasible policy. "I can't dance," he says in a rush. She'll laugh at him, and not in the good way. Why did he think this was a good idea? It's all Zevran's fault somehow, he's sure of it.

She gleams up at him a little, and he feels the awkwardness ease a few degrees. "Not even…the Remigold?"

"Especially not the Remigold. Anyway, I haven't got a dress in my pack."

She does laugh then, but he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. "I'll show you." He's dropped his hands away from her during that brief moment of panic, so she reaches for them and places his hand right in that curve he'd admired so much earlier. He thinks he might die. She sways him back and forth for a few counts, then pulls him into the figures of the dance.

It's not the thing of beauty that it was when she danced with Leliana, he can feel that, but they are beginning to excel at teamwork and he finds that some of his fighting training translates well enough. And she's probably danced with clumsy men before, though his brain immediately wants to reject the idea of anyone else dancing with her badly, or at all. To cheer himself, he tightens his grasp on her waist and gallops around the fire; traditional steps be damned. She beams at him and grips his shoulder harder, trying to keep up. It's becoming much less like dancing and more like the tussling and this pleases him greatly.

As Leiliana's song winds down, Alistair remembers something he saw once at a village faire. He grabs his partner's hand and spins her away from him, then whips her back in close. During the last measure, he sweeps his Warden into a deep dip. She is laughing hysterically and arched back over his arm; her hair has become unbound and wild and is nearly hanging in the dirt.

He's laughing too, the hardest he's laughed in a very long time, but his eyes are suddenly drawn her heaving chest and the pulse point in her exposed throat and his laughter fades. He's starting to understand why he doesn't like being compared to her brother.

She senses his sudden disquiet and begins to struggle back upright. He doesn't know what imp of the perverse sways him, but before she can right herself he leans forward and…

Licks her. Right in that hollow of her neck where he can see her heartbeat. It's _awesome_.

She freezes. The silence is both too long and not nearly long enough. Then, in dark tones, her voice drifts up to him. "Alistair. Did you just _lick_ me?"

"EEeeeyeah."

He still hasn't let her up but she twists in his arms, impossibly quick. She kicks him, hard, in the ankle and before he can react he's landed hard on his back with the wind knocked out of him. She follows him down and pins him with one knee on his chest. He considers trying to throw her off but thinks better of it when he sees the look in her eyes. She's _angry_.

He doesn't know much about girls, so he falls back on field tactics. _The enemy approaches. Lie still. Stay silent._

Her icy stare pins him at least as effectively as the bony knee against his ribcage, and he watches with a sort of doomed fascination as a parade of emotions flicker across her face. She looks as if she would very much like to say a few choice words, and even though he knows better than to draw attention during an attack, he thinks maybe she just needs a little encouragement. "I-"

_Bad move. It's all over_. He closes his eyes and prays to the Maker for mercy. But-

Now she's _kissing_ him.

It's not exactly romantic; to be honest it's more like being attacked and it's not at all what he was expecting from kissing or from her or from _kissing_ _her_ but by the Maker, he'll take it. He inches one hand up to touch her hair.

She pushes off of him suddenly, digging her knee into his chest extra hard as she rolls to her feet and stomps off across the campground to her tent. Alistair lies in the dirt for a moment to gather his wits. He's pretty sure everyone saw that, but he finds it difficult to care. He wonders if the rest of his battle training might be applicable in this situation…_neutralize the threat._

He sits up to calculate his odds, and is just in time to see his Warden snap the flaps of her tent shut behind her, snapping, "Guard!" to her Mabari and leaving the bemused warhound outside. The dog noses at the tent entrance hopefully, but his entreaties are thoroughly ignored. He sadly scratches a hollow in the dirt, rotates a few times, and flops down with a massive sigh. Apparently negotiations are off for the evening. For everyone.

Later, Alistair brings the hound some scraps from supper. The two sit together in contemplative silence, thinking of their lady and how easy it is to lose an argument you didn't even know you were having.


End file.
